


Way the Hell Over the Cuckoo's Nest

by lucifers_left_earlobe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Asylum, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-02
Updated: 2013-10-01
Packaged: 2017-12-28 04:49:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/987855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucifers_left_earlobe/pseuds/lucifers_left_earlobe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester has been wrongfully declared mentally unfit to cope with pre-Cold War society. Because of a mistake during a hunt, he was locked away in Haverford's Mental Rehabilitation Center for the Insane. It's what he called home since he was sixteen. Eight years pass and his life is continuing as usual in the asylum; dank walls, horrible jokes on the part of Meg, and an all around crappy way to live life. Dean's usual pace is interrupted by the presence of a new inmate, Castiel, who informs him of a bitter truth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Way the Hell Over the Cuckoo's Nest

Dean Winchester had been at Haverford Ward for approximately nine years now. He’d been diagnosed a ‘schizophrenic with pyromaniac and self-destructive tendencies and a penchant for devil worship’. He will concede to being self-destructive, however, the other diagnoses are complete bullshit. He’d been hunting; had the cops given him anytime to explain what he was doing, he probably could’ve talked himself out of a mental ward and into a prison at the very least.

He supposes it could be worse, though. Sammy got away and, to the extent of his knowledge, found Bobby after all of those years of searching. But that was ages ago; Dean was literally a child at sixteen when he was put up in the cuckoo’s nest. Now he’s almost twenty-four. Times have changed; he hears rumors of the assassination of a hot young president. Of civil riots breaking out everywhere across America. One of his roommates believes that they will be getting out soon; what with new policies and such ensuring that the ‘criminally insane’ are actually criminally insane. Dean hopes those are true.

Occasionally, Sammy would call the ward, though their calls were recorded and his brother had to use a pseudonym when conversing. From what Dean could gather, he was an uncle. Sam had left the family business in favor of creating a family himself. He had a niece taking his namesake, Deanna. He asked why he didn’t name the little girl after their mother; Sam had only replied with, “That would mean there would be two Mary Winchester’s if you have a little girl.” And Dean supposes that’s true, if he did get out of here and settle down with someone who could tolerate his shit.

Things are going as usual in the high-functioning ward; Charlie is smoking someone’s ass at Poker, Garth is performing sock puppet theatre for a large audience, even Meg seems to be in a relatively good mood as she smokes her Cuban imports. Dean sits beside her, one of the fancy things in his own mouth, and the two discuss the usual: music, hunting, and escape. Meg did have a bit of an advantage over Dean in the fact that she could escape anytime she wanted; her very essence was a cloud of black smoke, she could slip through a crack in a window almost undetected. Though she stays, and neither of them ever talks about it.

Just as Charlie is about to win her game (again), the wide doors to the rec room open wide, announcing the entrance of the nurses. The vast majority of the patients scramble to conceal their own assorted knickknacks and games. Dean tucks his switchblade into the waistband of his briefs and Meg stuffs the little tin container of cigars into her bra. Everyone puts on the facade of innocence and sit as inconspicuously as possible, doing mundane things with their hands to alleviate any suspicion.

Nurse Moseley enters first, leading two large men and a patient into the now hushed room. Dean can only see the outline of a man’s shoulders; he’s definitely toned, though somewhat dainty, suggesting that he worked a cushy job in a cushy building to provide for his 2.5 kids and upkeep his picket fenced suburban house. They continue walking so they’re front and center, and Dean gets a better look at the guy. Okay, he’ll admit that the ‘suburban dad’ assumption was ludicrously incorrect. The man, though Dean can’t place his age exactly so he may still be a boy, is coated in bruises and scratches. Those muscular arms are more chiseled than could be gathered from his shoulders alone. His hair is a deep brown mass of tangled curls and haywire ends, likely the result of a fire as one of his eyebrows looks like it had been seared off.

But the guy’s eyes are terrifying. The two men are close to fifteen feet apart and the man isn’t even looking at him, but Dean can feel the man’s authority, his power just by grazing his own eyes over this man. He exudes an air of universal intent; he has _seen_ things, as cheesy as it sounds. After ten years in a nut house, Dean knows what looking like a crazed murderer feels like. This man is sane, and he looks guilty as Hell.

Moseley obnoxiously clears her throat and Dean tears his eyes from the mysterious man. “Now I know y’all are welcoming people,” She begins, her Kansas drawl strangely nostalgic for Dean. She continues, “And we’ve got ourselves a new inpatient. This is Castiel Novak, and he ain’t too talkative so don’t be pesterin’ him too much. He’ll talk to y’all when he’s ready.” She turns and dismisses the large attendants gripping Castiel by his arms. He rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck, offering a cold glare to the patrons of the room.

“Okay, you can get back to your business. That was all for today, honeys.” Moseley excuses herself and evacuates the room with a haste Dean’s only seen in the fleeing supernatural. Moseley was lying through her teeth when she said Castiel was going to talk to them. Dean remembers when she introduced him to the crowd, giving them false information about how he was a social-fuckin’-butterfly and that people should look to him for conversation. Castiel looks to be the very definition of oppressive and crude. He folds his arms over his chest defensively, as though preparing for battle. Dean turns to Meg to ask if she’d like to go back to private quarters and break out their whiskey when Dean notices the bedroom eyes she’s shooting Captain Grumpy’s way. Huh, he figured Meg for the angsty Elvis type.

Castiel walks to an empty corner of the room and seats himself on the floor in the corner. The man is almost childlike as he encircles his legs in his arms, pulling his knees to his chest and resting his chin on them. It reminds Dean of his first month in the ward. The only difference is that he was locked in low-functioning and high security; being transferred to minimal watch after he’d been stabbed by his hall mate, Dean knows he could easily handle the new man if any fight were to break out. He’s thinking up ways he could kill the man should any discrepancy occur when there is a sharp jab to his ribs. Meg looks to be the culprit.

“What the fuck, Meg?” He turns on her, arms raised defensively to ward off any additional attacks from the demon. She rolls her eyes at him and raises her brows.

“Seems you’re interested in Clarence over there,” Meg says, her twang coming out when she calls him ‘Clarence’. She gives him a suggestive smile. “I never figured ya’ for a queer, Winchester.”

“Shut the fuck up, Masters. I’m not interested in him, I just kind of feel bad for him.” Dean says. Meg notices that he didn’t deny the ‘queer’ bit. Dean, oblivious to her newfound knowledge, continues. “Everyone’s first week sucks ass, and his life’s going to suck for a while. I’m just saying we should look out for him or somethin’.”

Meg stares at him incredulously momentarily before bursting into a fit of laughter. Dean glares at her until she shuts her mouth and swipes a tear from her eye. “Dean, honey, you never want to look after other patients. You live and fucking breathe by ‘survival of the fittest’ and all that shit. If you’re into him, that’s cool. He’s easy on the eyes.”

And she’s not lying. Castiel _is_ attractive, by any standards. But, he’s too grumpy, probably mopey too. Dean runs a hand through his hair and frowns at the floor. He’s not into Castiel, he just appreciates good looks. He’s only ever been interested in one other patient, Benny, and he got discharged earlier in the year. Dean’s been in the middle of a pretty damn barren dry spell.

“Yeah, fine. I’m going to see if he wants to play cards with Charlie and me. If you want to join, no one’s stopping you.” And with that, he walks over to the sullen man, stopping a careful three feet from him.

Up close, Dean can see everything he missed in Castiel from a distance. He’s older than Dean had expected; he’s probably in his early thirties or so. Contrary to what he thought before, those thin arms were coated in a layer of wiry muscle. One of them has an intricate tattoo in the wrist, decorated with a cross and what looks to be a spirit repellent symbol, though Dean’s never seen it.

“What is it that you want?” rumbles a deep, baritone voice. Dean does a double take when he finds that it came from Castiel, this scrawny little punk of a man. He also notices Castiel’s face for the first time. Castiel would be considered pretty if this we’re a different time and people didn’t have ridiculous opinions on what a man must look like. But, those pretty pink round lips and his pretty straight nose. And, God, those pretty baby blues glancing up at Dean from under thick lashes. Castiel was very pretty, but manly pretty from the scruff decorating his jaw. Dean realizes he’s staring right as Castiel does and the little crinkles at the corners of his eyes deepen in a mocking smile.

“If you really want to look, I’d suggest taking a picture,” Castiel says, sarcasm figuratively dripping off his tongue. That broke Dean out of his daze. He puts on his most intense bedroom eyes and offers Castiel a smirk that seeps dishonest intentions.

“Why have the picture when I can have the real thing?” He wiggles his eyebrows for effect, attempting to get Castiel to back off, but it does the exact opposite. Castiel unfolds himself from his curled up position on the floor and stands, leaning almost comically against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest seductively. Dean has to admit, if this wasn’t complete mockery of each other, he’d be really turned on. Castiel is _really_ hot.

“Yeah? What makes you think you can, big man?” Castiel purrs, dropping his voice an octave lower. Dean can’t help the little twinge of blood that heads southward, the sound momentarily stopping all of his brain function. Castiel noticed the slip up too, if the wicked glint in his eye is anything to go by. Dean clears his throat and corrects his mistake.

“Won’t you like to see me try?” Dean says, making his voice as close as he can to a growl. A hush has settled over the room and Dean can feel eyes on his back. His new friend appears to sense the attention too and he fidgets slightly. Right, he hasn’t been here long. The outside world might have more progressive views regarding homosexuality and expressiveness, but in here there still remained the old generation, the members of the America party and such. As quickly as the first epiphany, Dean realizes that Castiel wouldn’t be so openly flirting with him (realistically or mockingly) if he was completely straight. He also notices the slight bump in Castiel’s trousers and the pinkish hue his face has taken.

“What’s your game?” Castiel asks, raising an eyebrow. His voice is quieter, just above a whisper, when he asks. He’s genuinely curious. Dean replies, “Both,” and Castiel stares at him perplexedly, as though considering something. When he opens his mouth again he asks, “Is there somewhere more private to talk? Bring that blonde woman with you, I have some questions.”

Castiel, well Cas as that fits better in Dean’s mouth, is a hunter. Not only is Cas a hunter, he’s a fucking _angel_. And no, that is not a flirtation. He was out in Chicago, given the orders to inspect a possible Horseman’s landing when he was caught by the cops, his eyes showing off the bright glow of his grace. He’d been scouting for Death, after he went missing causing chaos and overpopulation in the greater metro area, and had been unable to find him until a preacher had found his sigil inscribed into the floor of his church and prayed for protection. Dean thought the whole religious business was nonsense, but Cas had insisted that members of the various religious sects had helped the Heavenly Garrison locate and lock Lucifer in Hell. The only thing he didn’t understand was why they had argued so vehemently that they were superior above all other religions. Cas had said they all serve essentially the same purpose: to educate and to hope. It all made sense when Cas had phrased it as a sort of open network with communication being spoken via vessels and psychics.

He’d been brought to Haverford’s when he told the police that he was only trying to allow nature to resume its natural course. They then asked him what, pre tell, did he mean by that, to which he replied mass death because of the lack of reapers. They had arrested him on the spot on suspicion of ‘the devil’s’ activity and fanaticism, though Dean didn’t understand why that was grounds for imprisonment. Cas didn’t either, apparently, and proceeded to inform the police that his brother was not deserving of worship but punishment, and the police recommended him being committed to an asylum for a while. Just a while turned out to be starting at Hopkins, the holding center for the homeless and unable, then being transported here where he is revisiting his last week for the purpose of educating Dean.

“So are you going to leave?” Dean asks. He doesn’t understand why Meg won’t leave, as she herself is a being that doesn’t necessarily occupy space. Cas would leave for sure, except he hadn’t abandoned his vessel yet so that leaves Dean with the assumption that he won’t. Cas shrugs his shoulders and rubs a hand against his neck.

“No. Human punishment is naught compared to the wrath of the archangels. I would rather have my grace forcefully ripped from my body than ever be near the doors of such a place,” Cas grumbles, his voice dipping an octave lower with his muttered words. “And I’ve promised my services to another... angel already. I can’t just disobey orders, Dean.”

Huh, an all-powerful being can’t refuse orders? That’s kind of ridiculous, even to Dean. Still, though, if Cas has a point; he can’t just disobey. Dean’s been trying since he was a kid. Which leads Dean to another startling realization.

“Cas, how old are you?” he asks, though he bets that Cas is well over several thousand years old. His estimate, though extremely large, was still way off when Cas replies, “I am older than your Earth’s sun by about sixteen million years, give or take.”

Meg elicits a long, drawn out whistle, expressing her awe at Cas’s age; and _she’s_ a six hundred-year-old demon for Christ’s sake. Dean must look like less than an insect to Castiel, the angel that walks the Earth. He’s literally older than the materials that comprise of Dean himself. And that scares the shit out of him.

“So what made you come visit us insects, eh Cas?” Dean asks, sarcastically of course, trying to alleviate some of his awe at the individual seated in front of him. Cas looks up at him, his eyes squinting in an oddly childlike fashion. He tilts his head and his mouth sets in an astoundingly irritating line of arrogance.

“It wasn’t out of choice, Dean. You are insects to us, less than that really. Insects brought about life on Earth; without them, you wouldn’t have even came into existence,” Cas folds his arms around his legs and tugs them to his chest. His lower lip hangs in boredom as his blue eyes bore a hole into the wall behind Dean. The arrogant fucker.

“Yeah, well as much as that’s true, you’re stuck in one of the ‘less than insect’ asylums. And like it or not, you’ve gotta stay here if you’re running away from your archangels.” Dean stands and walks around they’re little table to flop beside Cas. “So, time to get you familiar, yeah?” Dean asks, winking at the blue eyed angel.

“Yeah, fine.” Cas grumbles at his hands. He twists and curls them, as if he has a desire to strangle someone, probably Dean, and pushes himself away from the table. He glares at Dean for a moment, as though contemplating whether to smite him like the sack of meat he is, but decides on sparing him his life with a grunt and a turn on his heel.

Dean sighs and pushes himself off the table to show their new bestie to his quarters. He nods to Meg, “If you want to come with, hey, I have no objections. Take him if you want him,” before heading off to chauffeur the angel to his bedroom. The nurses have always left that part to the other inpatients to encourage social activity, but in the end it’s usually a load of horseshit to call any of the patients ‘social’. Dean catches up with the speedy guy, basically sprinting to keep stride with his unrelenting pace. They’re also headed in the opposite direction of nightly assigned quarters.

“Cas, we’ve gotta go the other way,” Dean mutters, both out of breath and patience. Cas glares at him and continues his hasty pace; actually, no, he doesn’t continue it. He hastens it. “Where the hell do you even plan on going? Mars?” Dean asks, tired of this guy’s bullshit.

“I’ve been there, actually. It was barren and the people weren’t entirely taken to my presence.” Of course Cas has been to Mars. Dean would’ve thought he came from there given his extremely off-putting attitude. Cas, apparently, has more thoughts on his crazed determination of touring the whole mental hospital. “There is something not right here, Dean. How long have you been here?” he asks, suddenly putting on the brakes as Dean sprints through the halls.

He walks back to Cas and places his hands firmly on his hips. “What the fuck? There’s nothin’ strange here, Cas. And there never has been. Nine years I’ve been here; I’m a hunter, I would’ve noticed if something were fucked.” Dean positions himself directly in front of the angel, attempting to use his height advantage for intimidation, but failing miserably going by the amused smile touching Cas’s lips.

“If you’ve been here nine years, explain why you haven’t aged a day since you first came in.” Cas’s chests puffs slightly and the faint shadows of wings ruffle themselves out on the wall behind the angel. Damn, they really do have wings. Dean backs off, but keeps an eye on Cas.

“What do you mean ‘haven’t aged a day’? Course I have, I’m twenty-three now. I was sixteen when I came in,” Dean replies, adopting that stupid head tilt the angel used a couple of times when he was baffled by their little conversation. He _was_ sixteen. He isn’t anymore. If there’s one thing Dean’s sure about, it’s that he’s been in this asylum for a while. Who the hell is a stranger to come in and tell him that might be a lie?

“I mean exactly as I say. We’ve been here almost a half hour, correct?” Dean nods. “So you would think break time would be over and we’d all be corralled off to lunch or duties,” Cas muses, a hand pressed under his chin out of his vessel’s habit. Cas deliberates for a moment before answering his own hypothesis. “It’s possible we have a djinn on our hands.”

Dean doesn’t know where the angel is coming from. It’s not like he’d known Dean when he was sixteen. How could he assume that he hasn’t aged? He shouldn’t know; he _can’t_ know. Even if he were right, hypothetically, Dean would’ve died long ago.

“And just how do you know that I haven’t aged a day, Cas?” Dean asks, his tone quizzical. Castiel simply tilts his head with a tiny smile. “Because I checked, Dean. This is a bubble universe in the corner of your mind, and approximately three demons are inhabiting your body right now,” Castiel responds.

Three demons? That’s impossible; Dean knows that Cas is lying. The fucker must think he’s stupid or something. Dean opens his mouth slightly to barter Cas’s hypothesis with an angry counter about Cas living in his ass when the alarm sounds.

“What is that?” Castiel asks. He scans the room of any invaders or oddities, then goes into a weird meditative state. After a moment, his eyes refocus and his eyes are piercing as they pin Dean. “There’s trouble.”

Trouble? Of course there’s fucking trouble, they’re in a mental hospital for Christ’s sake. Dean watches as Castiel shoves himself forward, his feet flopping on the linoleum floor in a rapid rhythm. Dean stares for a moment, then sprints after the madman. What the fuck is he doing?

“Cas, what the hell?” Dean yells, already out of breath from trying to catch up with the angel’s remarkable stamina. Castiel turns to glance at him, at his reddened cheeks and at the sweat blooming at his brow, and slows his pace slightly. They turn down another hallway and jog for a couple of minutes before Castiel answers.

“One of the nurses on the third floor has started leaking a black discharge. She’s talking in, as the other nurses say, “garbled Satanist tongue,” and her face has evolved into a large, animalistic mouth.” Castiel grunts slightly in what Dean presumes to be amusement. Dean, after making said presumption, deduces that angels have absolutely no sense of humor.

Castiel continues on his rampage, bumping into a few orderlies as he sprints to the mysterious creature. They turn to chase them, but Dean quickly knocks over a few trash cans to get them off their trail. “Black ooze, huh?” Dean mumbles. The angel turns and looks at him over his shoulder. “Well, at least it’s something interesting.”

“I’d hardly call it interesting, Dean.” Cas replies. He can feel Castiel’s eyes on him as they continue; probably questioning why he thinks it’s interesting. Angels _really_ don’t have a sense of humor. Dean tries for an explanation. “It’s, uh, y’know. It’s a joke.”

Castiel pulls his eyes away from Dean with a very obvious and very exasperated sigh. At least he understands sass if he can use it so well. Dean glances at the angel, scrutinizing him. Though he is running, he shows no visible signs of distress. His hair is slightly mussed and his lips are parted, but Dean doesn’t think he’s breathing. His cheeks are still that sallow pallor and his face is free of any perspiration.

“Hey Cas?” Dean has to ask. “Do angels ever, uh, experience human shit?” Castiel slows to almost a halt and tilts his head like he does. Dean decides that at least they can develop habits. Castiel postulates the question momentarily, opening and shutting his mouth as though he can’t find the words.

“It’s not that we don’t experience the human life, rather we reflect it in our vessels,” Cas mutters. He rubs a hand against his chin before continuing, “In certain instances, however, our grace, our very essence, can love so much it becomes a part of the angel itself. It rarely happens with other angels, let alone with humans, but when it does, the angel would tear their grace out to experience humanity.”

Castiel appraises Dean one last time before continuing down the hall, this time at a leisurely pace as they are close to their destination. Dean, however, is caught up in his own thoughts. Experience humanity? There are- there have been, angels who have _torn out their very essence_ to coexist with humans. That’s a little more significant than just human affection in Dean’s opinion. Castiel seems to not have the same opinion on the subject of his fucking species changing species out of love, as he simply carries on walking to his destination.

Dean eyes Castiel the whole way down the long corridor; the only abnormality he detects in the angel is the fact that he keeps shooting sidelong glances in Dean’s direction, quickly turning his head away when Dean meets his eyes.

After about a minute, and close to fifteen awkward shared looks, they arrive at the doorway of an extremely crowded room. If one can label corpses as a crowd, that is. Dean steps over a new orderly, probably only seventeen years old, and heads to what looks to be the center of all this mess.

Castiel follows his movements, observing each and every body with utmost scrutiny. He’s meticulous about his work; he stops and stoops before the bodies, observing their singed out eyes, the black goo effusing from their orifices. He sits down cross-legged at one point, beside an elderly woman. Pamela, he realizes. She doesn’t look as bad as the others; none of that black crap is leaking from her body. Castiel presses two fingers to the space between her eyebrows and she stirs slightly.

“What the hell did you do?” Dean gasps, watching as the woman reanimates. She coughs and drags herself up, searching for purchase with her fingertips. “Is that Dean? Turn on the lights, will ya’ hot stuff?” she says, squishing her eyebrows together in an attempt at blinking. The poor woman.

“Pammy, the lights are on.” He replies, trying his best to keep the tremor out of his voice. A Winchester would never admit fear but in this instance, he can at least admit it to himself. Her eyes have been completely incinerated from her skull, leaving only two gaping black holes with bits of bone in the mix. Dean almost wretches with the pure gruesomeness of it.

“What do you mean, sweetie?” She counters. Her hands continue their search, finally landing on Castiel’s leg. She grapples it, brushing over his crotch as her hands make their way up his torso and to his face. Pam thumbs her way over it. “Is this you?”

“No, that’s Castiel. He’s new.” Dean walks over to where she’s struggling. He takes her hands off of Castiel’s face and takes them in his own. “Pam... you’re blind,” Dean mutters. He waits for the slap, the chortle of disbelief, anything. Of course, he knows that Pam is different; she always has been sort of special to Dean.

So, that being said, he’s completely unsurprised when she pulls her hands out of Dean’s, smoothes her hair down, and works an honest, albeit somewhat insane, smile onto her face. “Hey, what was that play you liked so much with the blind seer?” Dammit, Pamela.

“Oedipus,” Castiel mumbles, making his first appearance in their conversation. Pamela turns to him, that smile now showing all of her pearly whites. Castiel looks startled at her acknowledgement, his lips parted from his bafflement. “Well who’s this?” Pam asks, to no one in particular.

“That’s Castiel. He, um, resurrected you.” Dean replies incredibly lamely. Castiel’s head audibly snaps from the force when he spins on Dean, glaring at him with an unmistakable ‘are you mad?!’ expression. Dean just shrugs in response, his eyes for Pamela alone.

She looks mildly shocked from the news that she was dead, though she doesn’t look in shock. Dean supposes this _is_ a mental asylum; he should expect stability where it is uncommon. “I suppose stranger things have happened,” Pamela mutters, coughing out a laugh. She ‘glances’ down at her torso and pokes at something wet and sticky looking. Shit. “I’m bleeding?” She asks again to no one in particular.

“No, I’ve recovered you of any wounds, whether they are external or spiritual.” Castiel interjects. Pam’s head swivels in his direction and she gropes around for him again, pulling him into what looks to be a choking embrace. “Thank you, sweetie.” She mumbles, her voice shaky.

Oh. She had schizophrenia. Castiel must have erased that as well. Pam looks... lost. Her mouth is slightly parted in surprise and the burnt skin surrounding her eye sockets tightens. She runs her hands over Castiel again, this time searching for his face. Castiel looks puzzled again, but there is a shade of sympathy in his eyes.

“You fixed these voices?” She asks, her voice incredulous. Castiel nods before realizing she can’t see and answers in the affirmative. Pam tugs his face down to hers and presses a soft kiss to his cheek. Then she pulls his head in and whispers something Dean can’t hear; though from Castiel’s receptive smile, it’s probably a thank you. They finish their moment and Pamela turns to face the general direction of Dean.

“That thing that was in here... it wasn’t human,” she drawls it. It isn’t a question; she’s sure of what she saw. Dean grunts his agreement and lets her continue. “Just before the lights got too bright, _it_ was leaking black fluid from its eyes, ears, mouth, and nose. The face was missin’-the only thing left of the old nurse was the mouth, and that had gone bigger.” Pamela tilts her head, indicating her curiosity.

Dean shoots Castiel a glance; he doesn’t know what the hell this thing is. Castiel ponders for a moment before addressing the both of them. “I’ve never heard of such a species. Though it is possible, and highly improbable, it could be a leviathan-angel half-breed.” Castiel looks to Dean and that confused expression crosses his features again. Well, it’s looking like Dean’s going to be no help on this one if Castiel, mother-fucking Angel of the Lord, doesn’t know. Castiel pulls his knees to his chest as he mulls over the possibility. Granted, it’s difficult to buy into the whole ‘Angel’ bullshit as is. Dean doesn’t even know what a Leviathan even is.

“Hey, Cas?” Dean asks, his curiosity getting the better of him. Castiel pulls himself away from a distant world of thoughts and those icy blue eyes focus on Dean. “Yes?”

“What is a Leviathan?” Dean asks, coughing to hide his inexperience with the creatures. Though, he can tell by Castiel’s smirk that he sees right through him. “Leviathan are God’s first creation, if you will, after the universe. They turned out to be savage-devouring everything. God created Purgatory to lock them somewhere safe, but it appears one has gotten out to... procreate.” Castiel pauses, pulling Pam up from where her arms where dragging her to a corpse. He pats her hair gently before continuing.

“The angels were the new and improved species. We have less strength, less of an appetite, and less emotion. Though, humans believe that that is a disadvantage.” Castiel snorts sarcastically. No emotion my ass. “So, when God created humans, you can imagine Heaven’s backlash. Lucifer is probably evidence enough, but most angels think of humans as less desirable than you would think of termites.”

Stuck up dicks, just like Dean imagined. No wonder Castiel seems so arrogant; he thinks of everyone in the hospital as below him. Dean briefly wonders what demons are to angels, and it appears Castiel had been reading his thoughts because he answers. “They are seen as something that needs to be eradicated. Worse than the Leviathans,” Castiel grumbles. Dean detects that the angel does **not** share this opinion with his angelic brethren.

Whatever the case, whatever the species, they’re going to gank the bitch. Dean pushes himself off the floor and offers a hand to Castiel, who stares at it like it’s a piece of meat before tentatively placing his fingertips in Dean’s with Snow White level daintiness. Dean has to bite his lip to cover the building guffaw and heaves up the angel, who is now _very_ puzzled.

“Dean, I-” Castiel’s words can’t escape his mouth when Dean presses a finger to his lips. He does not need to explain social dogma to a helpless alien. Instead, he turns away, helps Pamela up, and slowly steers her out of the corpse-infested room. She follows, picking up her feet when Dean says, “Careful, wouldn’t want to step on that,” or “Watch it, there are spiders.” He knows it’s cutesy and gooey and all of that shit, but it’s better than a woman (and himself) having a full blown panic attack from the mass murder committed in one of the infirmaries.

Dean and Castiel take turns leading Pamela through the hallway and to her room. It only takes a matter of minutes; she’s extremely smart as far as her visual memory of the halls goes. In no time, they seat her on her bed and Castiel finds two chairs for himself and Dean. They squeak as he drags them across the room.

Castiel pushes one behind Dean’s knees and another about three inches from his and folds himself into his seat. The proximity is kind of awkward, but hey, who gives a shit. There investigating a mass murder within a possible imaginary life. Castiel splays his hands beneath his chin as he stares intently at Pam, those blue eyes shifting from the ocean to the sky depending on who he looks at. Dean will give the fucker that he’s good looking.

“Do you recall what you were doing before you were murdered?” Castiel asks, his voice sharp like a whip, his face set into a hard glare. Well, no, not a hard glare so much as a chiseled-looking stare. Regardless, it was intense. Pamela starts for a second, probably recalling the cold fingers of death clutching at her soul before she answers.

“All I know is that an old orderly, probably Becky, waltzed into the room, her fucking face looking like it did in her prime. Y’all didn’t miss much,” She chuckles to herself, enjoying the relatively insulting humor. “Any who, she had these big white eyes, like she was containing a sun or something. She walked closer and I could see her footsteps were leaving this trail of goo. So, I get that that’s not normal right? Yeah, so I go and grab a scalpel, but nurse Missouri stops me. And a bunch of other nurses come running in like all hell’s breaking loose, which I guess it was, and then a bright flash of light. End of story.”

Pamela turns so she’s reclining on her bed, crossing her arms beneath her head. She squirms a bit, looking for where to put her feet, and Dean quickly tucks a pillow below them. She sighs, finally back in her room, away from everything. She fucking _died_ for god’s sake; Dean can agree that she deserves a breather.

But, her story does bring up a lot of questions. He gets that she was in the infirmary for her meds, and he understands why taking a scalpel would result in negative attention on the part of the orderlies. What he doesn’t understand is how a mutant, a literal fucking **alien** to this world could just wander into a relatively high security room. It’s true that many of the orderlies are highly regarded, however, white eyes and black, gooey footsteps? If that’s not evidence of something wrong, than Dean doesn’t know what is.

Castiel leans over and stage whispers in Dean’s ear, “I think you’re right about the story not lining up. I’ll do a sweep for any supernatural activity.” And just before Dean gets the chance to admonish him for reading his mind, Castiel goes into that freaky blank staring mode. It lasts only a minute, but it’s still unsettling to know that he’s a creature so powerful that simply by _expanding_ , he can scan an entire ten story building for non-human residents.

“There are a couple of demons here. That blonde woman you were talking to is one of them. I’ll execute them momentarily.” Castiel looks like he’s about to take off, literally. The shadows of his wings are visible on the walls again and he ruffles them a bit, allowing Dean to see a couple of feathers fall from those gracefully shaped things. Dean quickly places a hand on Castiel’s arm to prevent him from killing Meg.

“Don’t kill Meg. She’s a friend. We can get her to help if we need to investigate the other demons,” Dean mutters, hoping Pam will miss the bit of new information. She doesn’t, however, and butts into the conversation with a minute, “What’s all this demon talk?”

Castiel turns and glares at him, his eyes slightly resonating his grace. Okay, Dean will let him go. But he won’t let him kill Meg. They stare at each other for a few moments, waiting for the other to make the first move. Pam interrupts their quibble.

“All right, you two. I may not see but I know enough about awkwardness to know that you idiots are comparing lengths. And not in the sexy way. So why don’t you sit your pretty little asses down and answer my damn question.” She harrumphs before whistling ‘Jailhouse Rock’. Her fingers tap out the rhythm to a completely different song, Dean notes. She’s probably bristling at the absence of raucous noise blaring in her head at all hours of the day.

“Fine, Pammy. Demons. There are freaking demons in this mental hospital. And you know what? One of your best friends is one of them. I’m surprised she didn’t tell you all this before, but it’d sure benefit you to know that Meg’s on our side.” Dean heaves a breath and glares at the linen bed skirt tucked under Pam’s mattress. He didn’t need to tell her Meg was a demon. That wasn’t necessary information.

Castiel places a hand on Dean’s shoulder, probably to alert him of their need to find out what’s going on, but Dean takes it as friendly affection and bounds onto his feet. He turns to Castiel’s surprised gasping face with a toothy grin of his own and offers him his had yet again. Castiel takes it easier this time, letting his palm rest in Dean’s as he’s pulled to his feet.

“We’ve got to go Dean. It’s urgent,” Cas murmurs, being mindful of Pamela’s presence. She doesn’t seem to notice; too distracted with prodding the burnt skin of her face and wincing. Dean’s going to need to take her to the other infirmary before they go monster hunting. “Yeah, let’s just drop Pam off at Jo’s first,” Dean replies.

Castiel nods his affirmative, though he does blink curiously at the mention of Jo. He’ll have to introduce them eventually. However, now is neither the time, nor the circumstance, to be introducing people to other people. Dean’s got to get out of this fucked mind palace, if Castiel is indeed correct, and save a couple of lives doing so.

He shuffles to the other side of the bed and lays a hand on Pam’s arm. “All right, sweetheart. We’re going to bring you to Jo’s so she can fix up those burns.” Pamela nods minutely and swings her legs over the edge of the thin mattress. Dean heaves her to her feet and wraps her arm around his shoulders. He signals Cas to come around and take the other side, which he does, entirely to Dean’s appreciation. They direct Pam out of her quarters and into the now bustling hallway. It’s lunch hour and everyone’s heading toward the cafeteria.

They fight the crowd; Dean mutters ‘scuse me’s while Cas just shoves at people with his shoulders, almost sending one PTSD patient careening into the women’s latrines. Dean seethes at the angel, though he can’t blame him for not recognizing social norm. Then again, he’s several billion years old. He should have figured out a thing or two.

Jo meets them at the doorway ten minutes, and three difficultly maneuvered staircases, later. She automatically goes into professional mode; her face rids itself of any emotion and she sprints for gauze and alcohol.

“Lay her on that cot!” She commands from somewhere near the back left corner. Cas and Dean oblige her, gently setting Pam on a private cot closer to the middle of the room. Pamela squirms when she feels the metal bars of the bed through the imitation mattress. When she shivers, Dean hands her his sweater, happy to provide comfort if any. Jo rushes back in that instant and brushes them both away. “Get out of here,” She mutters, sparing them one last concerned glance. Dean takes that as his cue to leave, dragging Castiel behind him.

They leave the room and are awarded a crowd. A good ten people are surrounding the door, all of them attempting to peek through the tiny window at the top. Dean tries to shove past them, but a youngish looking man latches onto his arm and, with big pleading eyes, asks him what happened in the other infirmary.

Castiel takes the spotlight, his features molding themselves into that same cold and distant grimace. “Nothing, as far as you are concerned. It’ll all become clear later,” he says, baritone voice set to monotone. The row closest to them stiffens and slinks away, distancing themselves from the ‘scary man’. Dean coughs to his a chuckle, his eyes shooting straight to Cas’s ridiculously nonchalant face.

“What he means is that the nurses will tell y’all if they find out anything. We know as much as you do,” Dean says, attempting to diffuse the tension his companion created. The atmosphere visibly relaxes; the crowd’s shoulders droop, spines curve into a more natural setting, and their lips upturn slightly. He smirks at Cas, not even bothering to hide his pleasure in the angel’s lack of ability to reason or even communicate. “How’s that, Cas?” He whispers just loud enough for him to hear.

“What’s that human phrase, Dean? Fuck off?” Castiel whispers back. Damn, he’s got to start watching his thoughts. Cas would probably mistake cursing to be customary human greeting. Though, Dean has to bargain that it would be amusing. And kind of hot. Shaking his head, and realizing that Castiel is smirking at him (Dean needs to learn to watch his thoughts); he turns back to the crowd.

“You should all clear out and head for mess. We’ll be there in a few; I’ve got to show Castiel,” he jerks a thumb toward the angel, “to his room.” And with minimal protest on the part of the little crowd, they walk off in the direction of the cafeteria, eyes downcast and head slumped into its usual submissive position.

Dean turns back to his companion. “Let’s hop to it, Spock.”

**Author's Note:**

> I really like the idea of AU's set in different times. So, I wrote an AU in the sixties. If it helps, when I wrote it, I pictured the asylum to be a hell of a lot like the one in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, thus the title. I'm having fun writing it; there may be more asylum AU's in the future for me.


End file.
